


quaquaversal

by uku



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A Mother's Nosy Interference Leads to a Stupid Decision, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Get Ready for a Rom-Com Guys I'm Feeling It, It's a Bit Random I Suppose, Older Woman/Younger Man, i don't really know what i'm doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:46:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uku/pseuds/uku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Again, it just happened, rather quickly rather randomly rather she doesn't really know what to do.</p><p>Explanation: Her mother is a meddling, well-meaning woman who has compelled her to drag along this idiot boy as her "lovely young boyfriend" in order to help her seal the deal on a particularly enticing job offer. Of course, there is an enemy to be struck down. Idea slightly based off of the movie Baggage Claim but not really really, mostly just the mother. Everything else most likely various other romantic comedy movies yes I'm not that original at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. quaquaversal

 

 

 

 

_(adj.) moving or happening in every direction instantaneously_

 

I mean, he kind of just collided with her. Yeah, she's sure it was an accident but that doesn't stop her from screaming her fucking face off at him. She's already had enough negativity directed at her for the day. First, she's fired from her job, next, she finds out her mother's stopping by not next week, but tomorrow, expecting to see her bright, wonderful, absolutely _beautiful_ ("and it's all going to waste what with that lab coat and rather nerdy spectacles getup") daughter. But then again that lab coat is now in the trash. Because life is shit.

"I'm really, really sorry," the guy repeats profusely, getting up and reaching out a hand for her to grasp. She takes it with carefully-manicured fingers, gingerly pulling herself up. What? Just because you don't  _see it_ (well her mother doesn't) doesn't mean it doesn't exist. It's something her mother fails to grasp, the whole, "there's more on the inside" idea though her interpretation has stretched it, albeit a little. 

"It's fine," she retorts, utterly failing at appearing polite. Well, whatever. It's not like it matters with this stupid idiot--

"Wait, are you sure you're okay? You're bleeding." 

Bleeding? Oh no.

She turns around, eyes following his hand pointing at the state of her right knee. Yes, yes that's most definitely blood. And, well it's quite a bit of blood. And well, she doesn't really  _like_ blood in fact she--

she passes out.

"Oh my god." He gapes, looking at her sunken state. He paces back-and-forth, running fingers through his hair, looks around and glances over at her again. "Oh, my,  _god_." 


	2. quiddity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n.) the essence of something

 

 

_(n.) the essence of something_

 

 

 

"She kind of just--" he gestures, a quick fall to the ground. At least, that's what she thinks it is, though everything's a bit of a blur at the moment. As her eyes adjust, the scene focuses before her: the sight of a boy - well an apparently apparently attractive little boy gesticulating flamboyantly to the doctor before him, eyeing his movements in mild bewilderment. She can't help but chuckle, diverting their attention to her.

"Oh my god," is that all he can say? He rushes over, grasping her hand and snuggling against it gingerly. She scrunches her eyebrows at the contact. "I thought you  _died._ "

"For some absurd reason," the doctor interrupts, rolling his eyes at the act. "I told you she was fine."

"But she wasn't  _moving--_ "

"-Yes, well, anyway--"

"--how are you?" the idiot ignores pointedly, looking down at her with worried eyes. He must be relieved for the apparently shocking realization that he  _did not_ kill her. The more she's with him the more irritating he seems to be.

His sincerity (if it is sincerity) is sweet though. "I'm fine," she smiles politely at the doctor, glancing swiftly at the boy. "I don't do very well with blood."

"Yes," he nods, "based on your records, this isn't the first time that this has happened?"

She shakes her head, the smile contrasting the flash of irritation beneath her eyes.

"Well, you're free to go then, everything else seems to be in order." He smiles robotically at her, swiftly walking out the door. 

She begins to pull the sheets off, but realizes absentmindedly that she apparently only has one hand to do so. The idiot is still clinging tightly to her hand. "Ahem," she says, glancing irritably at his hands. She pretends not to notice the slender fingers, long and carefully entwined with hers.

He pulls away quickly, backing away and wiping his hands on his jeans. "S-sorry," he stammers, scratching awkwardly at the back of his head. "I'll just head out now, seeing as you seem to be okay." He waves obviously, eyes lingering a little too long at her legs. She rolls her eyes. He turns away, running quickly out the door.

As she pulls her shoes on, Lydia realizes stupidly that the idiot, as sporadic and blubbering as he may be, 

had rather warm, inviting brown eyes.

 

 

 

 


	3. portentous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (adj.) giving a sign or warning that something usually bad or unpleasant is going to happen

 

 

_(adj.) giving a sign or warning that something usually bad or unpleasant is going to happen_

 

 

She had one of those dreams, the odd ones where the people, strangers or not, are somehow fascinating enough to your vast mind that they hold an important part within them, like a 

              sex 

     partner

for example.

She woke up flushed, feeling unusually sated but more than anything absolutely lost. Who _ever_ that idiot was, she happened to recall a dream with him in it, doing things, which, frankly, should be illegal. Meaning she is the one at fault because there is no possible way that boy is a day over seventeen. 

She's twenty-five. 

Eight years difference? Oh no, it doesn't  _sound_ that bad, but really, girls reach the age of full maturity by twenty-two.  _Boys,_ on the other hand, mature by at least thirty years old.

Why is she taking the time to mull over this?

She sighs. Coffee. She needs coffee.

She taps on her Keurig, brewing a good cup of dark magic and realizes that she really, truly needs to reignite her sexual desire. To be honest, she's not entirely sure of how long it's even been. 

The doorbell rings, and she huffs a breath of annoyance. It's too early to socialize, even so much as receiving a box from the local UPS driver. She doesn't bother looking through the peephole, swinging the door open, and saying exasperatedly, "Don't say a word just give me the paper and I'll sign it and you can be on your merry way--"

She halts abruptly, warmth rushing to her cheeks as she realizes the _idiot she mentally had sex with last night_ is standing in front of her. 

A pause.

"We meet again," he awkwardly says, leaning forward on his toes. He's dressed in the typical, UPS uniform that strangely fills him nicely. Though that--she means--it's not as though she has one of those plummer fetishes. No one is going to  _declog her pipes oh god why does she watch porn?_  "Um, here--" He hands her the paper, and she, in turn, quickly composes herself as she signs off the sheet. Just as he's handing her the box, she hears the  _click-clack-click-clack_ like a stampede against her ears.

Her mother.

Her mother is  _here._


	4. sphallolalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n.) flirtatious talk that leads nowhere

 

 

_(n.) flirtatious talk that leads nowhere_

 

 

So there's one thing she hadn't exactly mentioned yet.

Her mother--bless her heart, is a wonderful, kind-hearted, caring human being who has, and would do, practically anything to see her daughter thrive at her fullest. However, her "fullest" entails a tendency (nagging, incessant push) to think she needs a good, steady man in her life, and that, in fact, "the clock is ticking my darling." She's only twenty-five years old, but to explain the fact that being sexy, free and single is acceptable until your mid-forties is a task too tedious to take.

Needless to say, her mother isn't exactly the role model of love herself (Lydia's had, give or take, a few very kind old fathers in her day) but her belief remains adamant. And my god, is it a _belief._

So much so that Lydia's jumped happily on that bandwagon herself, much to her chagrin, in hopes to catapult her mother off her heavily burdened back. Yes, _catapult_.

But there's one, slight problem she hadn't foreseen (i.e. she forgot): she needs to lasso in said 'man', though she has already, in severe detail, described exactly who this man is.

Handsome, of course, well-endowed (rich, you perverted little idiots), and last but not least, she's hopelessly, absolutely in love with him in every single way. In fact she does recall referring to him as the all-encompassing "man of her dreams".

She would have easily fixed this problem with a simple, pick-and-choose on a nightly outing (because she's had seamless trouble picking a reasonably  well-off man), but she's quite recently lost her job and is currently racking her brain as to how she's going to pay for her next rent so please, mother, cut her some slack. 

Though she  _has_  told her that they've been 'together' for over a year now ("and counting!" her mother would unfailingly chime in). 

So what's a girl to do?

"Shut up." She commands the idiot, slipping an arm between his.

"Wha-?"

"Just shut up." She reiterates, tightening her grip on his arm. She glances off, noticing the up-and-down bob of her mother's head as she walks up the steps. Wait. Actually, "What's your name?" It's more of a command than a question.

"Stiles," he slowly says, beautiful brown eyes reflecting those of a lost puppy. Oh he's so cute. Oh he's so  _young._

"What's a Stiles?" She scrunches her face at the sound:  _Stiles._  It sounds like what you'd name you're fluffy, ever-shedding Labrador Retriever.

"It's a nickname," he explains haughtily, annoyance tinging his voice. 

"Did you give that nickname yourself." She states blandly.

"Yes," he proudly claims.

She shrugs, "Figures." She ignores the offended look he sends her.

He's about to retort when her mother blabs loudly, "Oh, so I'm finally getting to meet that man of yours!" She hurries her step, rushing over. "Now let's see this handsome piece of--" As she nears, her perky smile falters, "...meat." She gives him a once over, Lydia smiling all too happily. "This...is that man of your dreams?" She questions, skeptical.

Stiles looks at her then, confusion splattered across his face, "Man of your drea--?"

"--Of course!" she interrupts happily. "Why would even ask?"

"Why?" her mother's eyes glaze slowly over him, "If my memory behooves me, I do remember you describing him as the next, what was it you said? James Bond? Or was it that other fellow, that alien doctor?" _Matt Smith,_ mother. Honestly, how could you forget? _  
_

"You described me as James Bond?" the idiot asks, obviously flattered.

He looks nothing like James Bond. "No." she deadpans way too quickly, earning a look of even further skepticism from her mother. Damn her luck. Regaining her all too pleasant composure, she explains confidently, "No, mom, I told you he looked like, like--you know that guy from  _The Big Bang Theory?_ You're favorite one."

"Oh, Sheldon? Oh I see it now!" She comprehends, a false smile spreading across her face. 

"Sh-" he reacts, disgusted, and looking incredulously at Lydia. " _Sheldon_?"

Lydia tightens her grip on his arm, nails digging into his skin. 

"Ow," he flinches, and again, glares at her, confused and angry as his muscles reflexively spasm at the contact. It's actually, fairly firm. Hm. 

"Oh Lydia, let him talk, will you? I need to get to know this leading man in your life,"

"Yes,  _Lydia_ _,_ let  _him_ talk."

"Right right well anyway explain this get up of yours!" she interrupts, blatantly stopping his chance. She turns to Lydia, crossing her arms, still obviously disbelieving. "Didn't you tell me he was a CEO?"

"CEO?" He points at himself, once again hopelessly confused. "I'm a U--"

"-PS driver for a..." She ponders, unable to find the words. "..special occasion!"

"A special occasion...?" Her mother wiggles her eyebrows suggestively, "I didn't know you had a kinky side, Lydia." She isn't sure what disturbs her more, the fact that her mother said those exact words to her or the fact she _actually_ said those _exact_ words to her.

"Was it that obvious?" She might as well play along, she thinks, as she runs a hand over his front. She turns his face towards hers, "We like to  _spice things up._ Don't we, honey?" _  
_

"Honey? I am _not_ your honey you bat-shit crazy woman--"

"Oh--he's hilarious! Hil _arious_! Aren't you my squiggly pie?" Squiggly pie? What the hell does that even mean?

"Oh you two are so cute!" her mother splutters, clapping her hands excitedly. Don't tell me she's actually starting to believe this. Wait, she's actually starting to believe this! Thank god. "Tell me more about your sex life. I want to hear  _all_ of it." Or maybe this isn't good thing.

The expression upon his face surpasses the origin of shock and disgust itself. Well that was a little insulting.

" _O-kay_ , time for you to go," she shoves him away, pushing him off towards his truck. 

"A truck, too?" her mother mumbles to herself,  watching the two of them. "They've really outdone themselves." Suddenly, she realizes a very important thing, waving at them to get their attention. "I didn't get your name!" she calls.

He turns, abruptly stopping Lydia's shoving and calls back, "It's Sti--!"

"It's time for you to go!" she interrupts, slapping him on the cheek to push him away, contorting his face. She would laugh but things are in need of being convincingly lied about right now. "It's Germain!" She's always liked that name, it's got enough oddity to pass as foreignly sexy.

"Well it was nice to meet you, Germain!"

The look she sends him shuts him up before he thinks up a reply, eyes boring into the back of his head as he drives away.

She mentally sighs, if she could she'd crumple to the floor to reflect her sheer stupidity and spontaneity. For someone so clever, quick-thinking is not her forte.

He could have been out of town or something.

 

 


	5. eudaimonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (n.) lit. "human flourishing"; a contented state of being happy and healthy and prosperous

 

 

_(n.) lit. "human flourishing"; a contented state of being happy and healthy and prosperous_

 

"So," her mother begins, plopping herself on a bar stool as she watches Lydia prepare her a cup of coffee. " _Tell me about him_. I want to know _everything._ "

"Didn't I already tell you everything?" Lydia feigns, muddling through her cupboards for the right mug. "All you were waiting for was to see him, and you saw him." Unfortunately. She sighs, oh, she is so stupid.

"Oh," her mother laughs heartily, her long nails cutting through the air. "You're kidding, right? That was just a silly trick you wanted to play on your sweet old mother, wasn't it? Oh, but I caught on, didn't I? And, if I do say so myself, I played the part quite well." She smiles smugly, flipping her hair. Of course, it was too good to be true. "Now, why are you hiding him from me? I want to see the  _real_ Germain!"

Every day, every day she wonders how she dealt with this for eighteen, consecutive years. Lydia says nothing, and simply hands her a cup. "I've got to go and wash up," she idly says, ignoring her mothers jibe.

"Wait a minute," her mother ponders aloud, "or maybe this _is_ actually him and you're just embarrassed by him?"

Lydia responds with a utterly confused and  _she is unbelievable_ expression. "Mother? No, what? What?"

"Oh, honey," her mother coos, slipping off her seat and embracing Lydia in her arms. "You don't have to lie to me, if you love him, love him. But first off--" She pushes her away until she's arm's length away, hands on still on her shoulders. "Is he rich?"

This is too fast, she hasn't prepared enough of a backstory. "Uh, um--"

"You better bring him to Melissa's event." she says, turning  away and looking through her bag. She pulls out her phone, swiping through it with a clacky nail until she finds what she's looking for. "On...oh, this month, actually. And no--" She raises her hand, halting Lydia's excuse. "No excuses, you  _must_ come. If I want to impress this woman and get this job, I'll need you there by my side, showing off your _obviously more educated_ man. I can't let Jackson take this away from me--"

Lydia's brain rushes to a stop, excuses flying out the window. "Wait, Jackson? Are you talking about the--"

"--the boy you knew from school? Oh yes, that one. He's dating that bitch's daughter. You know how Melissa is, she loves it when her son gets along with her co-worker's--" Lydia exits out of the rest of the conversation.

The  _boy she knew from school?_ That's all her mother picked up on? That  _boy she knew from school_  was, and still is, very important in her heart--but for _entirely different_ reasons now. Lydia doesn't especially like to admit this, but she wasn't as well-known and put-together as she is now. In fact, some would call her a  _nerd,_ or a  _freak,_ or a, hm, what was the other? Oh yes the one you  _stay away from_ for better chances of climbing up the high school hierarchy -- which of course, Jackson, yes, _Jackson_ , was at the top. And Lydia, sweet, innocent Lydia, let her heart pour out into a terribly personal, terribly  _stupid_ letter he slipped into his locker. Which he recited in the middle of lunch, in front of the whole school, further destroying her high school life--yes, it all sounds horribly cliche but _it happened_ , alright? At the time, she was fairly certain embarrassment was a sneak-peak preview of hell. _  
_

Oh, yes, he has a _very special place_ in her heart: the place where she keeps the knife he put through her's.

That mother-fucker is going  _down._

"I'm not complaining, am I?" She responds cheerily, straightening her posture. "Of course I'll come, of course I'll bring him, of course he'll be much,  _much_  better than Jackson. He's absolutely  _wonderful_ and I can't even begin to explain how inexplicably happy I am with him! I'm sure Melissa will _love_  him!" A plan is forming.

Oh, a plan is really,  _truly_   forming.

First thing's first: what was his name again?


	6. 아쉬움

_(n.) the mingled feeling of disappointment, frustration, and regret that results from an unsatisfactory situation_

"Damn it." Stiles curses as he drops his keys on the welcome mat. He crouches down, picking them up and noticing the blaring red letters FINAL NOTICE.

"Fuck," he curses once more, grabbing the envelope and unlocking the door. He drops his keys on the counter, running a hand through his hair as he sighs exasperatedly at the envelope. The phone rings just before he peels away the flap.

"Hello."

"So, how was it?" Ah, Isaac. 

"How was what?"

"Being me for a day."

"A shitty UPS driver? I've been better." He pauses, "Well actually it was pretty strange."

"Asshole--and what do you mean by _strange?_ "

Stiles shrugs, "Well there was this girl."

" _Oh._ "

"Not 'oh' she was insane. I played pretend-rich boyfriend for her so she could impress her mother."

Isaac laughs in response, "That's hilarious, what did you do?"

"Me? I tried to get away-- but her  _nails -- ow."_ Stiles rubs gingerly at his arm. "But anyway, how much are you giving me?"

"50. Haven't I told you that plenty of times already?"

That's not nearly enough. He sighs, "okay."

"Short on cash?"

"I just got the final notice."

"Shit man. I wish I could help but I'm barely surviving as it is."

"Yeah, it's no problem I'll figure something out." I hope.

A pause. "I'll try and pull some strings--"

"No, really. You've done more than enough. I'll figure something out," he says, feigning reassurance. 

"Are you sure?" the other tentatively asks.

"Yeah," Stiles replies, completely unconvincing, "I'm sure."

Yes. He does realize that this is all his fault (and he really should've gotten a job much sooner) but laziness? Laziness is evident. And it sucks. Everything sucks. Everything is going exactly how he didn't want it to. 


	7. nemesism

_(n.) frustration, anger or aggression directed inward, towards oneself and one's way of living_

 

She has to find him, and she _thought this would be easy_. Her idiocy surprises her at times, why did she put herself in this mess? Her life is barely keeping itself together as it is.

"What do you mean he doesn't work there?" Lydia interrogates, clipped. "He was _wearing_   the uniform!" She sandwiches the phone between her ear and her shoulder, pulling a dress off the rack and over her body. She checks the mirror, frowns, and puts it back. "So what you're telling me is," she readjusts her phone as she fiddles through more clothing, "that he was an imposter? _How is that even possible?_ "She sighs,this is obviously getting her nowhere. She hangs up, not even bothering with a goodbye. Rolling her eyes, she distracts herself by finding the perfect outfit for the "big day" as her mother calls it.

It'll be miracle if she ever finds this boy.

Crash, collide, whatever you may call it--has her spilling the contents of her purse on the department store floor.

"Oh shit I'm so sor--you again?" The idiot had graced her presence once more, sporting his usual disheveled, wannabe skater boy look with a matching plaid shirt over laying his t-shirt. He doesn't seem that pleased to see her.

It _is_  a miracle.

"Yes, me again," she crosses her arms, waiting expectantly for him to pick up her things. He looks at her for a second, very conscious of the glare she's sending him until he realizes his gentlemanly manners are calling. He places her things back in her bag, sighing and rolling his eyes--he already thinks she's a bitch.

Good. "So I have a proposition for you," she crosses her arms, watching him arrogantly as her purse is put back in order.

"No." He curtly replies, finally placing the last item back in her bag. No?

"Alright, then," she replies calmly, feigning nonchalance. She grabs her bag from his hands, swiftly turning on her four-inch heels and strutting off. _Please run after me please run after me please--_

He watches as the distance grows, biting at the inside of his cheek as he contemplates. _Shit_."Wait, wait!" he calls, trailing after her. She smirks, speeding up her pace. "What was the proposition?" He casually asks, finally matching her strides.

She shrugs, "I thought you said no." She walks faster, heels clacking loudly against the tile.

"I changed my mind." He reasons, impatient.

"Did you?"She mocks, prolonging the inevitable. She hears his sigh of frustration, noticing the hand running through his hair in the corner of her eye.

" _Yes_ ," he exhales, failing to hide his annoyance.

She side-steps him, abruptly stopping him in his tracks. His expression of surprise does not go unnoticed, flailing limbs and all. The smile she sports is devilish.

He quirks an eyebrow, slightly perturbed.

* * *

 

"So you want me to be your fake boyfriend."

"Yes," she says.

"Are you insane? This is crazy. This doesn't make any sense."

He pauses, unsure.

"So yes or no? I need an answer." It better be yes, oh god please let it be yes.

Incredulous, he walks away as a reply.

She sighs,she didn't expect it to be that easy. She follows him out of the food court, calling out. "I'll pay you. Say, fifty bucks for the whole month." Pay him? Well, he _does_  need the money.

"What? No." But not that little.

"One hundred."

He speeds up.

She sighs,"One-fifty."

He stops, turning abruptly. "I said no. This is insane. This isn't going to work."

She rolls her eyes, "This isn't your problem. It's mine. All I need is your consent."

He sighs, about to keep walking.

"Two hundred and that's as high as I'm going."

He needs the money. "And that's per month."

"If I need you for longer than one, then yes."

He needs the money.

"Alright," he says, "I'll do it."


	8. apotheosis

 

 

 

_(n.) the perfect example_

 

1 p.m.

He's coming over here at 1p.m. And  _that_ is when the transformation begins. She smiles maliciously.

Of course, this is insane. Of course, she knows she sounds crazy. But of course, this is her. This is _Lydia_   _Martin_. She can sure as hell fix up a guy to be the perfect man. Tall, dark -- well, extremely pale, -- and handsome.  _  
_

The doorbell rings, and it's 1:05 p.m. She sighs, strutting over to her apartment door and swinging it open.

And there he stands, dressed like hopeless, wannabe skater-boy as usual. She sighs, this task will require  _work._  Nothing she can't handle but--

_why did she get herself in this mess?_

"You're late." she snaps, slightly annoyed.

He pulls out his phone and glances at the time, rolling his eyes. "Five minutes."

"Yeah." She retorts, crossing her arms.

"I apologize," he bows, his warm, brown eyes focused on hers (sending unnecessary reactions throughout her body), "your  _highness._ "

It's her turn to roll her eyes. She grabs him by the arm. "Just get in here." She pushes him inside, and somehow he nearly trips and falls on the floor. He pulls himself up, straight and casual as if nothing happened.

"Are you always like this?" She gestures at his clumsiness.

"Like what?" He replies, splaying himself across her couch.

So he has no idea. Well, she'll have to change that. "Nevermind. Let's just begin."

"Right," he claps his hands, settling his elbows on his knees. "What am I doing?"

"Well, to begin with," she looks him over, "stand up."

He looks at her, confused but abides, standing up. He waits patiently, sandwiched between the coffee table and the couch.

This boy is so stupid. She rolls her eyes, "Now get over here," she motions for him to come nearer.

"Okay..." he walks and stops short in front of her. 

She looks him over, from head-to-toe. She circles him, thoroughly checking him over. His ass, she supposes, is fairly nice. 

"What are you doing." His brain? Not so much.

"Seeing what I have to work with," she replies, facing him once more.

He quirks an eyebrow.

* * *

 

"First off, we'll start with the way you move." They're still at her apartment, but the coffee table has been moved and replaced with an antsy Stiles, while Lydia lounges on the couch with a cup of tea in her hand. She takes a sip.

"What's wrong with the way I move?" He flails his hands in emphasis.

She sighs, "So many things."

"So many-wait, what?--"

She puts her tea down, and walks over."You need to stand up straight," she punches him in the back. ("Ow." Stiles complains.) "That also means you need stop hunching over," she taps on his shoulders. He readjusts. "Better," she concedes. "Now I know this might be difficult for you, but can you keep that posture while walking?"

Stiles, incredulous, retorts, "I'm not an idiot." He fixes his composure and walks, dashing strides until the inevitable.

He falls. Somehow.

"You really have a problem," Lydia comments, watching as he picks himself back up again.

Stiles ignores her.

* * *

 

"Alright, that took much longer than expected," she drones as he  _finally_  masters a socially-acceptable walk.

"Yeah yeah," Stiles shrugs. "It's been two hours. Are we done?"

"Done?" Lydia gapes at him, "You're kidding. We're just getting started."

She can see the color drain from his face.

It's strangely empowering.

* * *

 

She hums,  _it could have been worse._ _  
_

She circles him once more, eyes lingering. The suit fits him perfectly.

She was expecting worse.--

She catches a glimpse at his ass. Very,  _very_ perfectly.

But he's surprisingly--

She'd fuck him right then and there.

\--Well, _we might actually have a chance to pull this thing off._

 

 


End file.
